Mrs. Ryther nodded. “Then you’ll understand. I don’t know where your child is now. I remember a baby who might have been yours, brought in by a nurse from Vancouver. He stayed with us for quite some time before he went to a foster family.”
“Surely you have records,” Bronwyn said.
“As I told your parents, I’m not even sure it’s the child you’re looking for.”
“But it could be?”
Mrs. Ryther pursed her lips. “It’s not possible to keep track of every child who comes through my doors, Miss Morgan. That little boy could be the one. He might not be.”
Bronwyn tried to adjust the drooping brim of her hat. “I think, Mother Ryther,” she said carefully, “that you know where he is. But you don’t want to tell me.”
“Because I’m not sure.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be sure of anything again.” Bronwyn started toward the door. “Thank you for seeing me, and for your kindness. I don’t know what I would have done.”
Her hand was already on the doorknob when Mrs. Ryther said, “I told your parents, and I’ll say it to you as well. I think you should keep the baby in your prayers, but leave him be. Go on with your life.”
“I suppose I’ll have to.” Bronwyn turned the knob.
“Wait, Miss Morgan. Where are you going?”
“Benedict Hall. I should reassure my parents.”
“I can telephone to them. They had their motorcar, I believe. I’m sure they’ll be happy to come and fetch you.”
Bronwyn closed her eyes at the thought. Her mother would be tearful. Her father would be rigid with fury, but he would come. She had to admit, as tired as she was, as emotionally drained, it would be a great relief to hand herself over to them once again. If only it didn’t feel like a step backward.
She pressed her forehead to the rough wood of the door, trying to think. For a long moment, she didn’t speak, and didn’t move. Mrs. Ryther, with uncharacteristic empathy, waited for her. At last, Bronwyn opened her eyes, put her back to the door, and nodded. “Yes, please. I think that would be best.”
Blake, Dr. Margot, and the elder Benedicts had been on the road the better part of two days. Mr. Dickson rode in the front seat, while Dr. Margot stayed in the rear with her mother, keeping her medical bag close at hand.
Mrs. Edith spent the drive gazing blankly out the window. Blake was sure she saw none of the scenery, which was a shame. The mountains were richly forested, layered in shades of green from the lightness of feathery pines to the near-black of ancient spruces. Frequent waterfalls spilled beside the road, fed by snowmelt from the peaks and sparkling like diamonds in the sunshine. Despite the grim circumstances, Blake enjoyed the drive. The Cadillac rolled smoothly on the freshly graded gravel, and the mountain air was cool, a relief after the stifling heat of Walla Walla.
He was also, he admitted to himself, glad to have Dr. Margot safely in his own hands. He trusted the motor and the frame of the Cadillac far more than the frail-looking airplane the major favored. He only wished she didn’t look so worried.
She wasn’t enjoying the scenery, either. She watched her mother, and though she didn’t try to get her to speak, she did coax her to take sips of water, and to drink cups of tea when they stopped for food. Blake had to wait outside, of course, as the Benedicts ate. He assured them he was glad of the chance to stretch his legs. Mr. Dickson always sent out a sandwich or a platter of bacon and eggs, and Blake leaned against the hood of the Cadillac to eat his meal.
At their last stop, the Benedicts went into a small roadhouse in Fall City to use the washroom and order sandwiches to last them the rest of the drive. Traffic had increased steadily as they left the mountains, and the driveway of the roadhouse was crowded with trucks and automobiles. Blake dropped his passengers off in front of the entrance, and parked the Cadillac beneath a tall maple that bent so far to one side its branches trailed in the current of the Snoqualmie River. The sun was high and hot. He got out of the automobile to stretch. He removed his driving coat and cap, and lounged against the trunk of the tree, enjoying the fresh breeze that carried the scent of the river up over its banks.
A family emerged from the roadhouse as he stood there, a man and two tall sons, with a woman in a straw hat and a summer dress. They walked toward their automobile, a battered Dixie Flyer, but as they passed, the boys paused to admire the Cadillac. Their father, a thin man in a pair of worn overalls, glanced across the automobile’s hood, and spotted Blake. “Hey, boy,” he said. His eyes were narrow, fox-like. “Whatcha doin’ there?”
Blake pushed away from the tree, and smoothed his shirtsleeves with deliberate movements. “Are you addressing me, sir?”
“You bet I am,” the man said. He strutted toward the Cadillac, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his overalls. “You gotcher eye on this motorcar?”
Blake felt an old, familiar resentment rise from his belly, a resentment he would have to ignore. “Yes, sir,” he said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. “I drive this automobile.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s a boy like you doin’ with a Cadillac?” The man slapped the shining green hood with a grimy hand, then bent to look through the open window.
Blake drew a slow breath, willing himself to be calm. The man’s two sons, grinning now, flanked their father on either side. The woman, who had been waving a paper fan to cool her face, folded it, and stood frowning.
“This motorcar,” Blake said, “belongs to my employer. I am his chauffeur.”
“Oh, yeah?” one of the boys said. He reached in through the rear window, and fingered the stamped leather of Dr. Margot’s medical bag where it rested on the seat. “What’s this, then?”
“Sir, if you please,” Blake said, although the boy couldn’t have been more than fifteen. “That’s a medical bag.”
The youth grinned. “Yeah? Good stuff inside, then?”
“Nothing you’d be interested in, I’m sure.”
Before he could finish his sentence, the boy hooked his finger through the handles of the bag, and hoisted it out through the window. Blake said again, “Please, sir. The bag belongs to Dr. Benedict. She’s in the restaurant, but she’ll be back in just a—”
The boy was paying him no attention. He held the bag in one arm, and began to work the catch with his other hand. Blake, his belly tight with tension, cast the parents a pleading glance, but the woman had turned away, and the man was smiling as if it was all a great joke.
The catch clicked, and the bag opened. Blake, his options gone, took one long stride forward, and put out his open hand. “Give me that, young man,” he said.
The woman belatedly turned, and in a nasal voice said, “Now, Tommy, don’tcha go—”
Her husband threw a hand up in her face. “Shut up, Dolly,” he said. “I’ll handle this.” He thrust his other hand into the pocket of his overalls, and drew out a small, ugly pistol. He held it barrel up, pointing at the sky, and fixed Blake with an angry look from his narrow eyes. “See this, boy?” he snarled. “You best get away from my son, or I’ll—”
Blake hadn’t heard the footsteps approaching on the packed dirt of the road. He didn’t realize she had returned until Dr. Margot’s long-fingered hand closed over the handles of her bag, and tore it away from the boy in a gesture violent enough to make him stumble to one side. The man in the overalls whirled to see who had interfered, and found himself looking up into her face, which was drawn in lines as severe as Blake had ever seen.
Her dark eyes flashed, and her voice was almost as deep as Blake’s as she said, “Put that thing away this moment.”
The thin man stared at her, the pistol hanging limply now from his hand. Dr. Margot glared at him with her jaw thrust forward. “Your son was interfering with my private property. Get away from here, or I’ll have the police after you for attempted theft.”
“Oh, miss, he wasn’t gonna—” the woman began, but Margot threw her such a hard look that she let her protest die away.
&nb
sp; The man thrust the pistol into the pocket of his overalls, and said, “Come on, Dolly. I just didn’t want that Nigra givin’ you any trouble.” He put his arm around his wife’s waist, and strutted across the road to his own dilapidated car. His sons trailed after him, and Blake was gratified to see Tommy glance warily back at the tall woman who had taken such swift command, and whom his father hadn’t dared to challenge.
Mr. Dickson and Mrs. Edith appeared a moment later, and when Dr. Margot explained what had happened, Mr. Dickson’s face darkened. “I’ll just have a word,” he said, turning toward the Dixie, but Blake stopped him.
“No, sir,” he said in an undertone. “Just let it go, if you would, Mr. Dickson.”
“I won’t have you treated in such a manner!”
“I appreciate it, sir, but we won’t see them again. Those people are likely a bit worked up because they’ve been to that rally. The one in Renton.”
“What rally?” Dr. Margot asked.
Mr. Dickson snorted and turned toward the car. “You’re right, Blake. Dick mentioned that to me. The Klan meeting.”
Dr. Margot groaned. “I forgot, too.”
“Damned fools,” Dickson muttered.
“It’s unconscionable,” she said. “People like that—their children will grow up the same way.”
Blake said, “Please don’t worry about this now,” and both Mr. Dickson and Dr. Margot nodded, though reluctantly.
Throughout all of it, Mrs. Edith stood in silence, staring at her dusty shoes. Nothing showed on her face, no recognition or interest. Dr. Margot, with a sigh, opened the back door of the Cadillac and guided her mother into it. With her medical bag in her hand, she moved around to the other side, and moments later they were on their way.
It was unworthy of him, Blake knew, but he took pleasure in the sight in his rearview mirror as he drove away. The man in the overalls was trying to start the motor in his old Dixie Flyer. His two sons were standing to one side, watching him struggle with the crank. They were both laughing.
When they reached Benedict Hall at last, Dickson went directly to his study while Blake garaged the automobile. The house was quiet, Louisa napping, Ramona out shopping. The twins stood in the hall, wide-eyed, as Margot escorted her mother up the stairs and down the corridor to her bedroom. She drew the curtains, and helped Edith to take off her shoes and her dress, then pulled a fluffy quilt over her. “Sleep a little, Mother,” she said. “I’ll send Thelma to wake you in time to bathe before dinner.”
Edith turned on her side and put one hand beneath her cheek. Margot started toward the door, but before she could open it, her mother spoke for the first time in hours. Her voice was thin, as if it took more energy to use it than she had to spare. “Margot.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“He can’t help himself, you know.”
Margot turned back to the bed, and knelt beside it so she could look into her mother’s eyes. “I do know, Mother. I know what he is.”
Edith’s eyelids drooped. “God help me,” she whispered. “I love him anyway.”
Margot did something she hadn’t done in years. She leaned forward, and placed a brief kiss on her mother’s cheek. “Of course you do,” she said quietly. “I know that, too.”
Edith didn’t say anything more, and in moments her eyes were closed, her shallow breathing steady. Margot got to her feet and slipped out of the bedroom, closing the door without a sound.
She went to her own rooms, and used her private telephone line to place a call to the Red Barn to make certain Frank had landed safely and that someone had picked him up at Sand Point. The switchboard found him for her, and they spoke briefly before she went to take a much-needed bath. She ran the tub as full as she dared, and stirred in some Palmer Salts. She stripped off her wrinkled clothes and lowered herself into the fragrant water with a groan of pleasure, resolving to stay there until something made her climb out.
She heard Louisa crowing down the hall, and Nurse’s soothing voice answering her. She heard the quick footsteps of Loena and Leona ascending the staircase, in tandem as usual, and then the slower ones of someone else descending. She heard the distant clatter of pans in the kitchen, and felt a pang of compunction for Blake, who had probably gone straight to work after putting the automobile away. Still she stayed in her bath, washing her hair, scrubbing her fingernails, until the water began to get cold.
She pulled the stopper in the tub, and climbed out, wrapping herself in a fresh towel. She combed her hair, cleaned her teeth, and went to put on a fresh shirtwaist and a pleated skirt. As she smoothed on her stockings and fastened them, she remembered the comfortable trousers she had worn at the Parrish ranch. “I’m going to order some of those,” she told her reflection, as she bent to slip on a pair of low-heeled pumps. “Even if I can only wear them at home.”
The day was far gone when she finally emerged from her room. She glanced down the corridor, and saw that her mother’s bedroom door was closed. She could hear her father there, speaking, though she couldn’t hear if Edith answered. She would send Thelma up to draw a bath for her.
With this task in mind, she started down the staircase. She heard voices in the small parlor, voices she didn’t recognize, and she hesitated in the hall, wondering who was there. The kitchen door swung open, and Hattie appeared, swathed in a large plaid apron, and carrying a long-handled ladle in her hand. “Oh, Miss Margot, it’s you. We’re awful glad you’re back!”
“Thank you, Hattie,” Margot said absently. “I am, too. Who’s in the small parlor?”
Hattie’s eyebrows flew up, and she took a step closer to whisper, “It’s the Morgans, Miss Margot! That little Bronwyn and her mama and daddy!”
“Oh, Lord,” Margot muttered. She had supposed they would have to deal with the girl sometime, but she hadn’t expected it to be immediate. “Do you know what they want, Hattie? Does Father know they’re here?”
“Mr. Dickson is in his study, but Mrs. Ramona is in the parlor with them. I don’t think they want anything but their girl back. You weren’t here, so you don’t know, but Miss Bronwyn found Miss Louisa over there in the park. Miss Louisa done fell smack dab in that wading pool!”
“Yes, Blake told me about that during the drive. And her parents—”
“Come all the way from Port Townsend, looking for her. They found a packet of clippings in her room, all about Benedict Hall, and they guessed where she might be. And here she showed up, just today, at that Ryther Home. They went off to fetch her in their motorcar, and Mrs. Ramona asked them to stay to dinner.” She waved the ladle in the general direction of the kitchen. “I best get back to it, Miss Margot, if we gonna have nine people for dinner.”
“Oh, yes, Hattie, of course. Go ahead. I suppose I’d better go and meet them.” Margot smoothed her skirt as she walked along the hall to the small parlor and pushed open the door.
Ramona jumped up when she saw her, and Margot had the impression she just barely restrained an exclamation of relief. She said, “Oh, Margot, how good to have you home! May I present the Morgans?”
Ramona began formal introductions, and Margot automatically put out her hand. Iris Morgan was fair, slight, and evidently very shy. Her cheeks flushed as she shook Margot’s hand with a tentative grip. Chesley Morgan’s handshake was brisk. He fixed Margot with a hard gaze and said, “It seems we owe your family a debt.”
“I don’t know if that’s true, Mr. Morgan. On the contrary, I’ve heard that your daughter was a great help to—” She turned to face the young woman standing beside the divan.
Like her mother’s, the young woman’s cheeks had reddened. Margot caught a breath in recognition. “Why, Miss Jones! It’s Betty Jones, isn’t it?”
“What?” Ramona said. She gestured to the girl. “No, Margot. This is Bronwyn Morgan. You know, the girl who—that is, the young woman—”
The girl’s eyes rose to meet Margot’s, and Margot knew she hadn’t made a mistake. Those gold-flecked eyes were unforgettable.
“It’s true, Dr. Benedict,” Bronwyn Morgan said, lifting her chin and speaking quickly, as if hurrying to get her confession over with. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I didn’t know it was you until—well, I didn’t know you were Preston’s sister. I had already told Mother Ryther I was Betty Jones. I was kind of stuck.”
“Never mind,” Margot said firmly, taking the girl’s hand and holding it in both of hers. “You were a great comfort to a lonely little boy while he was in your care. Nurse Church and I were grateful. It didn’t matter what you called yourself.”
Ramona said, “Margot, it seems Mother Benedict was right after all. What Preston told her is true. There’s a—a child.”
“Yes, he told me that, too.”
“Did he? Well, it seems—that is—Bronwyn is . . .”
Bronwyn said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Benedict.” She gently removed her hand from Margot’s grasp, but she held her gaze. “I never meant to cause any trouble for your family.”
“Nor have you,” Margot said. “My brother already told me about you, Miss Morgan. Although of course I didn’t realize we had already met.”
Chesley Morgan said stiffly, “We understand this is a shocking situation, Dr. Benedict. Mrs. Benedict,” he added, nodding to Ramona.
“It’s not so unusual as all that,” Margot said mildly. She crossed to the divan, where she seated herself, and accepted a small glass of sherry from Ramona.
“It is for us,” Iris Morgan whispered.
Her husband cleared his throat again, obviously a habit. He said tightly, “We raised our daughter better than that, I can promise you,” he pronounced.
Just as Iris murmured, “Chesley, please,” Bronwyn said, “No. You didn’t.”
Mr. Morgan’s face suffused with scarlet, and he sputtered, “What? What? What do you mean by that, Bronwyn?”
The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) Page 29